


You're My Open Road

by editingatwork



Series: The Definition of Reality [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blowjobs, Chirping, Established Relationship, Fluff, Frottage, Homophobia, M/M, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9669698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editingatwork/pseuds/editingatwork
Summary: When Swoops says, “You wanna take a road trip this summer?” he gets a sleepy mumble in reply.“Road trip?”“Yeah. Pack up the bare minimum and just hit the road."





	

Swoops suggests the road trip off-hand, between topics of a stream-of-consciousness conversation they’re having on a bus to Boston. Kent is leaning on Swoops’ shoulder and has been for the last hour. Nobody questions it anymore. They’ve been in each other’s pockets since last summer, and if they’ve suddenly started to gravitate a little closer than before, well, nobody asks and they’re not telling. But there’s always an open seat for Kent next to Swoops, or vice versa, whenever the team is on a bus or a plane or at a restaurant or hanging out at someone’s house yelling abuse over a non-hockey sports game that few of them really care about. 

It’s as close to open acceptance as they’ll get, short of coming out. Swoops is willing to grab it with both hands and push the boundaries of acceptable PDA as much as Kent and their respective careers will allow.

Kent is leaning on Swoops’ shoulder and Swoops is leaning against the window of the bus. The arm-rest between them has been pushed up so Kent can squeeze close and Swoops can put an arm around him. Kent’s voice has gotten drowsy and his responses slow. When Swoops says, “You wanna take a road trip this summer?” he gets a sleepy mumble in reply.

“Road trip?”

“Yeah. Pack up the bare minimum and just hit the road. Drive ‘til we get somewhere. Sleep in bad motels and cheap campgrounds.” He realizes that he’s absentmindedly stroking Kent’s arm with the tips of his fingers. It’s blatant affection but he can’t seem to stop.

“...You wanna take a road trip in your SUV?” Kent asks. “That’s like going to a drive-in in a limo.”

“We’ll rent something. It doesn’t even have to be a car,” he adds, thinking out loud. “My aunt did a cross-country thing with her biker group.”

Kent gives a light snort against Swoops’ shirt. “You’d need a motorcycle license.”

“I’ve got one. Just haven’t ridden for a while.”

Swoops thinks he can feel Kent’s smile. “You? Really?”

“Yeah? Why, you think I’m lying?”

“No. Just, I don’t know. You don’t seem the type. You’re so straight-laced.”

 _I fucked you in a supply closet in the Vegas Hockey Arena,_  Swoops thinks.  _I fucked you ‘til you couldn’t speak; ‘til you were so sweaty and shaking so badly that I almost dropped you._ What he says is, “I’m full of surprises.”

Kent makes a muffled sound of non-committal assent and snuggles a bit closer. Within minutes, he’s out like a light. Swoops checks for witnesses before carefully kissing the crown of Kent’s head.

He’s known, for a while now, that what he feels for Kent has gone beyond the fragile crush he’d started with when Kent was torturing him with his unintentional debauched appearance. It’s morphed into something warm and protective and aching. Swoops always thought falling in love with someone would be hard; that it would take work, and time, and pit-stops along the way. But he fell headlong into it, in no time at all.

The road-trip seems to escape Kent’s mind by the time he’s next awake, and Swoops doesn’t bring it up again.

Then, in May, once they’ve been knocked from the playoffs and found themselves with extra time on their hands, Kent texts him at random one night to ask,  _so, road trip?_

It’s 1 a.m. and Swoops isn’t thinking straight.

_what?_

_you still wanna go?_

Swoops has a flashback to the conversation on the bus to Boston, to how he’d felt with Kent under his arm and warm against his side. 

_yeah. u?_

_hell yeah_

That settles it. It’s surprisingly easy to get them on the road. All they need is a few changes of clothes, some toiletries, a compact tent and a couple of sleeping bags.

Well, that and the vehicle.

Swoops rents a motorcycle, after he asks Kent for a preference and gets a shrug in response. He gets a touring class Star Deluxe, because he likes the look and the storage space, and rents it out for a month. They haven’t made a hard plan of where to go or for how long. They’ve got phones with GPS and little interest in a destination besides “far from home.” It’s good enough for Swoops.

On the day they leave, Swoops picks up the bike and loads it up at his place before picking up Kent. He announces his arrival by revving the motor as he idles out on the street. There’s a chance that Kent won’t hear him from the sixth floor, but he does, and when Kent comes out with his bag over his shoulder, he slows down when he sees Swoops straddling the machine.

Swoops knows what he looks like. He’s built like a brick shithouse and wearing an old Blink-182 t-shirt that hugs his biceps, plus the oldest pair of jeans he owns. He pulled his old rider’s gloves and biker boots out of the back of his closet for practicality, but they definitely complete the look. He’s liking the way Kent’s lips have parted, how Kent’s gaze is dragging over Swoops’ thighs gripping the seat and the chords standing out in his arms as he grips the handlebars.

Swoops pushes up his sunglasses and asks, “Going my way, handsome?”

“Holy shit, Swoops.” Kent is pink under his Ray Bans. Swoops climbs off the bike and takes Kent’s bag, popping open one of the storage compartments and shoving it in. Once Kent’s stuff is packed and secure, Swoops unhooks a spare helmet and holds it out. It does a lot for his ego that Kent has to shake himself out of a daze in order to put it on. Or try, rather. Swoops has to help him. Their fingers get tangled and Swoops’ hands brush all up and down Kent’s neck and jaw.

“You’re so red,” Swoops teases under his breath. “See something you like?”

Kent pushes off the helmet and ducks in to kiss him, quick and hard. Swoops’ hands spasm on the helmet straps and he resists the almost  _violent_  urge to grab Kent by the hips and bend him backwards over the bike. He has a sudden premonition of the next week: nothing but empty road, anonymous hotel rooms, empty camp sites where the only other living things are jackrabbits and owls, and all the time and space in the world to take Kent apart every conceivable way Swoops knows how.

Swoops tugs Kent’s helmet into place and buckles the chinstrap. Then he pulls on his own helmet and a jacket to protect his arms while they ride. He slings a leg over the bike and gets comfortable before waving for Kent to get on behind him. He doesn’t even pretend not to enjoy having Kent plastered against him with two arms around his waist.

However...

“You’re not gonna have your boner riding my ass all the way to Utah, are you?”

“Shut up and drive.”

Swoops grins, shuts up, and revs the engine a few times before pushing off and leaving the parking lot.

Here’s the thing about Nevada: it is neither as empty of civilization as people seem to think, and also exactly that dry and deserted. They take route 15 and the change from Las Vegas proper to open road is sudden and startling; one minute they’re going past fifty gas stations and restaurants a minute, and the next it’s just long-distance truckers and unevenly spaced billboards for miles around. After twenty minutes, even the billboards are mostly gone, and the only thing in Swoops’ vision is endless black asphalt, sun-baked desert, and occasional trucks that lumber down the road like a dispersed herd of elephants on the savanna.

They hit the state border in under an hour, zipping into Arizona for a hot minute before driving north into the underbelly of Utah.

After another hour of driving, Swoops feels his stomach growl, and yells over his shoulder, “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” Kent yells back.

They hit a rest stop with a Cracker Barrel and pull into the parking lot outside the restaurant. It’s almost completely deserted; there’s nobody out having brunch on a random Wednesday. Kent slides off the bike and groans at the stiffness in his legs. “I’m not gonna make it to Salt Lake.”

Swoops slides off his helmet and shakes out his hair. “Are we going to Salt Lake?”

Kent shrugs and takes his helmet off, too. “Might as well.”

Swoops nods. They go into the restaurant, helmets under their arms. Seated at a booth, they talk idly about possible destinations and argue over the entertainment value of The Bachelor vs The Bachelorette. Since breakfast is being served all day, Kent gets a Double Meat plate and Swoops orders a Fresh Start Sampler, which comes with yogurt and a muffin. They unabashedly steal food off each others plates and wash down half a pitcher of orange juice.

The lunch crowd is just starting to show up when they leave. Kent slips a $100 tip under their empty plates and they hustle out of the restaurant and the parking lot before anyone can notice and ask about it. Back on the road, it’s still mostly red desert and green scrub, only now with the sun on their backs and starting to turn the air hot. Swoops is feeling the heat from the combined insulation of his jacket and Kent’s body hard and heavy against him. But the air is blowing past and keeping the front of him cool, and he wouldn’t trade the intimate knowledge of every shift and pulse of Kent’s body for anything.

Swoops is starting to see signs for Fishlake National Park when Kent leans forward and yells in his ear, “You wanna check it out?”

So they pull off at the next exit and find a parking lot near a trail. Neither of them has much in the way of hiking clothes, so they don’t go far. There’s plenty to see, though. Where Nevada and the lower parts of Utah were flat, the Fishlake boasts rolling mountains and wide valleys full of blue rivers that sparkle in the late afternoon sun. The landscape is flourishing in the early summer weather, bright green grasses mobbing rocks and boulders while flowers lay siege to every spare space they can find. With the water, plants, and pine trees  overtaking the paths, the air is much cooler than out on the road.

And it’s so  _quiet_. They accidentally come upon a peak that looks down on the river they’d been following, and Swoops can see it stretching all the way into the distance, disappearing into the grass and trees.

“Wow,” Kent says, and snaps a pic with his phone. Then, “Swoops, get over here.”

Swoops lets himself be wrangled into a selfie. He puts an arm around Kent’s shoulders and gets Kent’s arm slung loose around his waist. The ground they’re standing on is cut out of the photo, so they look like there’s nothing between them and the endless blue sky. They’re both wearing sunglasses and their wind-swept hair makes them look wild; untethered.

Swoops realizes there’s nobody around and takes the opportunity to tug Kent close and kiss him, hot and slow. Kent tucks his phone away and wraps his arms tight around Swoops’ neck. They make out for several minutes and nobody interrupts.

“God, I wanna fuck you right here,” Swoops whispers, even though he doesn’t have to, even though there’s no one around but squirrels and deer. “I wanna strip you down and lay you out, kiss every last inch of you.”

Kent moans and kisses him again. When he pulls back enough for Swoops to get a good look at him, his pupils are blown and his smile is wide. “I saw some signs for campsites around here,” he says. “We should check those out.”

Swoops does not want to find a campsite, he wants to worship Kent from head to toe  _right here._ But he recognizes the sense in getting them inside a tent first, so he nods and huffs, “Yeah. Let’s go.”

It’s almost dark by the time they manage to find a campsite rental station and get out to the campsite itself. Using the last fading glow of twilight and the headlights from the bike, they get the tent up and move the necessary supplies inside. It’s cold as fuck now and Swoops thanks God he made them pack insulated sleeping bags and lightweight long underwear. 

They get the sleeping bags out, zip them together, get in, and then go at each other. The ground beneath them is uneven and uncomfortable so there’s a lot of mutterings of “Ow” and “Fuck, was that a rock?” but it doesn’t stop them. Swoops doesn’t wait for Kent to get naked before shimmying down inside the sleeping bag and swallowing Kent’s dick, his hands on Kent’s ass and thighs. Kent moans and rocks up into him, fingers fisting in Swoops’ hair, the sound of him muffled but no less gorgeous. 

By the time Kent is coming, Swoops feels lightheaded from the lack of air under the blankets. The sight of Kent, sweaty and red and panting in post-orgasmic bliss, is totally worth it.

In return, Kent gets out the lube and fingers him, teasing him for an  _unfair_  amount of time before putting a condom on him and jerking him off. Kent kisses Swoops as he comes and swallows his groans. It’s hot and sweet and makes Swoops ache with affection.

They pull on the long underwear and then their clothes, and curl up together in the pocket of heat they’ve created inside the sleeping bag. Kent spoons Swoops and lays little kisses along the back of his neck until he falls asleep.

In the morning, they wake up to the sun already half-way up the sky.

“Shit,” Swoops mutters when he checks the time. “We lost a lot of daylight.”

Kent, still wrapped up around Swoops from behind, shrugs and slings a leg around Swoops’ hips. “Eh,” he says, nuzzling Swoops’ mussed hair and breathing him in. It makes goosebumps break out all over Swoops’ skin. “There’s no rush.”

 _True_ , Swoops thinks. The lack of a schedule or real destination was the point of the trip.

Kent grinds his morning wood into Swoops’ backside and nibbles his neck in a way that he damn well knows gets Swoops hot. “We’ve got all day.”

 _Fuck, yes,_  Swoops thinks, and rolls over to kiss Kent hard, morning breath be damned.

They get off just rolling against each other and panting into each other’s’ mouths. The end result is soiled clothes. Swoops doesn’t fucking care.

“We’ll swing by a laundromat,” he says as they put on their only other change of clothes.

The tent comes down easily enough and gets packed away with the sleeping bags. They can’t stop stealing kisses as they pack up; mostly it’s Swoops stealing them, unable to help himself with Kent looking so sleep-mussed and well-fucked and smelling so much like sweat and sex. From the smiles he gets every time his mouth lands somewhere on Kent—and the way Kent keeps pulling him back for more—he thinks the feeling is mutual.

They both need a shower. Spray-on deodorant can only do so much. They find a public bathroom and brush their teeth and try to comb their greasy hair over the single sink.

“We’ll get a hotel, next time,” Kent says. “I get enough of your sweaty locker-room smell after practice, I’m not gonna smell it all the way to Wyoming.”

Swoops spits out his toothpaste and rinses his toothbrush. “We’re going to Wyoming?”

Kent shrugs. “It’s right next to Salt Lake. Three hundred-ish miles and we hit Yellowstone. Why not?”

Swoops nods. “Might as well.”

“Exactly.”

There’s nowhere to eat nearby, so they have to drive a ways to find a diner. They’re both starving by then and desperate for coffee. They waste more time in a souvenir shop next door, cracking up over the various shot glasses and key chains and which teammates it would be most offensive to give them to. Swoops does buy a keychain, but for himself.

“Starting a collection?” Kent asks as they leave.

Swoops fiddles with his keys until he gets it on. “Feels like I ought to have something concrete to remember this trip by, even if it’s just a dumb keychain.”

“What about pictures?”

“You’re taking all the pictures. I’m not a pictures guy.”

They’re back at the bike and pulling on their helmets. Kent smirks as he tugs his chin strap tight and chirps, “Unless you’re secretly documenting your captain’s sex hair, right?”

Swoops gave that up months ago, starting on the day he got to kiss Kent for real instead of fantasizing about it. Kent hasn’t stopped looking regularly debauched. Swoops cares about it less these days, now that he’s the one debauching Kent on a regular basis. He wishes he could keep debauched-Kent all to himself, but Kent being sexy is a fact of life.

He gets his helmet on and swings his leg over the bike. “Right. Scientific purposes only.”

Kent snorts and climbs on behind him.

The GPS says it’s about two hours to Salt Lake City, but it feels longer than that. The landscape turns washed out and salt-dry, like the earth itself has been scraped raw by the acres of fluffy clouds passing overhead. Broken blue silhouettes of mountains in the far distance seem forever on the horizon, like a mirage. Route 50 has only two lanes, one for each direction, and there’s no one else on it. The world feels truly empty of everything but the two of them and the deafening roar of the bike. 

They take several stops along the way to stretch their legs. Kent takes pics to update Instagram with while Swoops contemplates the view in silence.

Utah Lake appears alongside them around mid-afternoon, and from there the roads become wider, busier, and sporting more evidence of human civilization. Salt Lake City is the same color as the rest of the desert, but dug up and paved over. Downtown Salt Lake is full of trees, highway overpasses, and modern office buildings.

A gray stone building with a neon-colored sign saying “The Blue Iguana” grabs Swoops’ attention and he pulls over. It turns out to be a Mexican restaurant, where they get a late lunch/early dinner. Kent has a couple beers. Swoops, being the driver, has none.

After demolishing a plate of tacos, two orders of buffalo wings, chips with guacamole and a dish of fried ice cream, they check their phones for local lodging.

“Hotel or motel?” Kent asks, scrolling through his phone.

“I literally do not care, as long as there’s a shower.” Swoops is officially sick of his own stink and the layer of grease in his hair.

“Motel 6?”

“Literally. Don’t. Care.”

Kent laughs at him and books a room online.

They get there just as the sun is setting. The parking lot is half full and bathed in blue light from the giant MOTEL 6 sign. The lobby is mostly empty, its front desk staffed by exactly one college girl.

Kent goes up and gives his reservation number. Swoops hangs out nearby and goes through the display of pamphlets advertising Things To Do In Salt Lake City.

“Oh,” the girl at the desk says, and looks up from the computer screen. “Sorry, it says here that you booked a single bed room by mistake. I’ve got a couple double-bed rooms available, I can switch it for you. It’s the same price.”

Kent shakes his head. “Nah, the single bed’s fine. Thanks, though.”

Swoops is looking down at a pamphlet for “Wiseguys Comedy Club” and isn’t paying much attention, but he  _hears_  the sudden wrongness in the girl’s silence. He looks up and sees her eyes dart between him and Kent. Her smile no longer looks natural, but plastered on. Like she’s tasted a worm in her apple and is trying to ignore the slimy, wiggling thing on her tongue.

“I mean, if you’re sure.” Her tone has acquired a light veneer of the same distaste as her smile. “We’ve got another, separate single-bed room open, too.”

Swoops sees Kent’s bright expression flicker uncertainly and it makes his whole body go cold. He pockets the pamphlet and comes to Kent’s side, wrapping an arm around his waist. It gives him a sick satisfaction to see the girl’s worm-apple expression deepen.

“If you could just get us the key,” Swoops says, smiling like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Kent is stiff and quiet next to him and it makes him  _furious_. He knows it’s unwarranted. The girl hasn’t done much more than look grossed out by the idea of two guys sleeping next to each other. But she’s done enough to make Kent look like he’s got something to be ashamed of, and for  _that_ , Swoops wants to do something loud and sudden to scare the ever-loving shit out of her.

Instead, he takes the keycards she gives him, thanks her, and steers Kent outside.

They take the bike around the building to their room, which is on the first floor. As they unload their things and bring them inside, Kent says, “Swoops. It’s fine. Chill, man.”

Swoops grits his teeth and hauls his bag over his shoulder. “It’s  _not_  fine. It’s none of her fucking business if we’re fucking.” He goes to the door and stabs the keycard into the lock.

“I’m not saying it was,” Kent says, and follows him inside. The room is clean and refurbished, with a dresser, table, TV, and an open closet with a couple hangers for jackets and shirts. Kent drops his bag on the bed and sits next to it. “But people are assholes, sometimes. It could have been worse. She could have pretended our reservation got cancelled or something and turned us away.”

Swoops snorts and throws his bag and helmet next to Kent’s. He doesn’t sit down. “We’re two big dudes who came in on a motorcycle and she’s one little toothpick college girl. She wasn’t going to start trouble with us.”

“Lucky for us, then.”

Swoops shakes his head. He keeps thinking about her sickened little smile, like looking at Kent had made her nauseous. “Lucky for her. If she’d tried something like that, I’d have—”

“ _Troy.”_

Swoops knows he deserves all the disappointment in Kent’s face and tone, but he doesn’t care. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he says, instead of defending himself, because they both know he can’t. “By myself.”

He heads for the bathroom, and as he closes the door, Kent calls, “Maybe you can wash off that shitty attitude while you’re in there!”

Ten minutes later, Swoops comes out in a billow of steam. Kent is lying on the bed playing with his phone. He doesn’t look up when Swoops comes over to dig through his bag for a fresh change of clothes.

“Shower’s free,” Swoops says. Kent grunts and gets off the bed. Swoops adds, “Give me your dirty clothes? I’m gonna go find a laundromat.”

“Yeah, sure.”

It’s weird, riding the bike without Kent behind him. He takes corners faster and doesn’t have to worry so much about weight distribution, but it’s lonely. His back is cold and he misses the security of Kent’s arms around him. The symbolism of this doesn’t escape him. A nearly-empty, twenty-four-hour laundromat some miles up the road gives him the time and space to calm down, but he doesn’t need it. The wash cycle hasn’t even finished before guilt gets its teeth in him.

By the time he’s back at the motel, he’s ready to apologize.

He comes in to Kent on the bed again, playing with his phone, this time damp and clean and smelling of complimentary body wash and shampoo.

“Sorry I was a dick,” Swoops says without preamble.

“Forgiven,” Kent says immediately. “I get it.”

Swoops puts their folded laundry on top of the dresser and comes to lie next to Kent on the bed. “It wasn’t about her,” he says. “It was about you. She made you get that face like you think you’ve got something to be ashamed of, and I hate that. You’ve been smiling nonstop for two days, and then she opens her fucking mouth and kills it. I  _hate_  that. She had no fucking right.”

Kent puts the phone aside and looks at him like Swoops is being dumb. “You realize I’m a grown-ass man, right? I’ve also been bi my whole life. This was not my first homophobe encounter. Hell, this was  _mild_. I’m not saying I don’t care when someone treats me like trash,” he adds, talking over Swoops’ objection before it’s out of his mouth. “But I can take it, okay? I appreciate the outrage on my behalf, but it’s not  _worth_  it. It’s not worth us fighting about. Okay? Get mad, fine. But let it go, man.”

 _You’re worth it_ , Swoops thinks. But he doesn’t want to fight, either, and if he’s not getting mad at the right person, then he’s just wasting time grinding his teeth when he could be trying to make Kent smile again.

“Okay,” he says, and draws a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Yeah, okay. You’re right.”

“I’m your captain, I’m always right.” Kent’s smiling. Swoops is so goddamn happy to see it. He kisses it, and then pulls Kent on top of him when the kissing doesn’t stop.

They have a bed this time. They go slow. They make out with their clothes on and grind together through their jeans. When they do get undressed, it’s like snakes shedding skin, peeled off in patches and kicked away to fall where it may. Kent giggles at Swoops’ fumbling efforts to get his pants undone without looking. Swoops tweaks Kent’s nose through the t-shirt wrapped around his head and asks, “Need a hand, there?” There’s smiles and sighs and moans all through it, fingers on hips and ribs and elbows like all of it needs to be re-discovered since they did this last night.

Kent wraps his fingers around their dicks. He bites his lip and sighs hot and humid onto Swoops’ collarbone as he pumps them. Swoops chokes and moans, “God, don’t stop,” toes curling against the bed comforter that has probably seen far worse. Kent squeezes his ass and bites his ear and sucks a hickey onto Swoops’ neck. He rolls their hips and moans obscenely, now tightening his grip and jerking them roughly.

Swoops comes first. He arches off the bed and shouts, not caring who hears.

“Yeah, fuck, that’s hot,” Kent gasps, and works his own dick until he’s coming, too.

In the aftermath, Kent gets a washcloth and cleans them up. Swoops feels like his earlier shower didn’t happen. With Kent falling into bed beside him, and then shuffling over to lie half on him with his head on Swoops’ shoulder and an arm around Swoops’s ribs, Swoops can’t find it in himself care.

“’M cold,” Kent says after a bit, and they pull on boxers and t-shirts, shut off the lights, and crawl under the covers. Kent stays cuddled up next to him. Swoops encourages this behavior by wrapping an arm around Kent’s shoulders and holding him close.

“So, this road trip was a stroke of genius,” Kent says. “We should do it again next year.”

Swoops tries to pretend hearing that doesn’t make him want to jump out of bed and yell out the door,  _He said ‘next year!_  What he says is, “Yeah. We totally should.”

“I’ll get a motorcycle license, so we can trade off driving. Unless you wanna get a car, next time?”

“I’m good with either.”

Kent hums against Swoops’ shoulder. “If we get a car, we can probably go earlier in the year. Maybe head up to Tahoe, catch the last of the snow.”

“What if we make playoffs?”

“We can still drive to Tahoe, just later. Enjoy the cool weather while everyone in Vegas is sweating their asses off.”

“Sounds good.” Swoops can feel himself drifting off. He’s so damn comfortable. He can’t help but be comfortable. He can’t help but feel like he’s got everything he could ever need, right here in this bed.

God, he needs sleep. He’s so close to saying all this shit out loud and he has no clue if Kent reciprocates his feelings. If Kent doesn’t, and if hearing that Swoops  _has_  these kinds of feelings makes him uncomfortable, it’ll make the rest of this trip extremely awkward. 

“Go to sleep, Parser,” Swoops mumbles. “Plan the rest of our lives out in the morning.”

Kent goes quiet. “Yeah. Right. Night, Swoops.”

“Night, Parse.”

Both of them sleep better in the bed than they did in the sleeping bags. Swoops feels alert and rested the next morning, and even more so after he takes a second shower. Kent joins him for it and manages to get on his knees and blow him despite the cramped space. He doesn’t let Swoops reciprocate; just kisses him and says, “You owe me one.” There’s a twinkle in his eye like he’s expecting more than just a blowie; like he’s expecting Swoops to impress him.

“Okay,” Swoops agrees, all other words having fled him.

They check out an hour late. It’s someone different at the front desk, unfortunately, so there’s no satisfaction to be had handing the keys back with  a smirk. The older man behind the computer barely acknowledges them as he charges their late fee and takes the key cards.

Breakfast is eaten at a McDonalds and then they’re on the road again. It’s six hours from Salt Lake City to Yellowstone National Park, through mostly uninterrupted flatland.

“I don’t know if my ass can take six hours,” Kent had said at the McDonalds.

Swoops had grinned over his Egg McMuffin.

“Shut up, you know what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” Swoops had agreed. “So we’ll see how far we get. If we don’t make it to Wyoming, we’ll find a motel or a campsite along the way. Or we’ll pull off the side of the road and pitch a tent somewhere. It’s not like anyone’s gonna notice if we’re just there for the night.”

With that caveat in mind, it no longer matters how many detours they take. There’s not much visible civilization but there’s plenty to see. Northern Utah is riddled with picturesque lakes and hills. Kent stops them multiple times to take pictures, which usually leads to a short search on Google maps to figure out where they are so he can tag it properly. Swoops, in turn, takes an exit leading to a giant antique warehouse after spotting a sign for it a mile back. They waste two hours wandering through the building and marveling at the sheer diversity of items. Swoops finds a vintage Mighty Ducks snapback and buys it for Kent.

“There,” he says, pulling it on over Kent’s fluffed-up hair. “Don’t ever say I never got you anything nice on this trip.”

Kent grins. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The rest of the day is the same. They drive, stop for gas, drive, get lunch at a diner, and drive some more. Idaho’s state line comes and goes. Swoops realizes around late afternoon that the air is growing colder the farther north they get.

The day feels long, but it seems like no time at all before the sun is quite obviously beginning to set.

They pull over on the side of the road and check their progress.

“We’re still about two hours out,” Swoops reports. They’re near something called Star Valley Ranch, which is apparently a resort area fancy enough to have its own clubhouse. Definitely not their scene. “There’s some motels we could try, or a couple RV campsites.”

Kent rolls his shoulders. “Not that I don’t enjoy the rustic experience of sleeping on the ground, but I vote motel.”

“Seconded.” Swoops Googles a little more. “I’ve got a ‘Swiss Mountain Motel’ and ‘Snider’s Rustic Inn.’” A quick call confirms that Swiss Mountain is booked, so they call Snider’s. Kent reserves a room. Then they’re back on the bike, forty minutes between them and the motel.

Not five minutes later, Kent is yelling into Swoops’ ear, “I need a bathroom.”

“You can’t wait a half hour?”

“Rather not.”

It’s nearing twilight and Swoops hates riding a bike at night. Still, he yells, “Sure,” and keeps his eyes out for a Rest Stop sign. Thankfully, he finds one. The rest stop is a quarter mile down a backwoods road surrounded by scrubland and is totally deserted. It features a low-maintenance cement building with men’s and women’s bathrooms, as well as a dusty open space with a couple of decrepit picnic tables.

“Hurry up,” Swoops tells Kent as he puts down the kickstand. He doesn’t shut off the engine. The whole place is dark except for two lone street lamp and the forboding glow of the bathroom lights. “I feel like we’re gonna get ax-murdered if we hang around.”

“If you do get ax-murdered, scream really loud. That way I’ll know to run.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Kent blows him a kiss and heads for the restroom. Swoops sits on the bike and waits. His eyes adjust to the darkness and he looks around. There’s nothing but scrublands and trees for miles. The only lights he can see are from cars along the highway in the distance, back the way they came. There’s nothing to indicate anyone lives nearby, no porch lights or dimly-lit houses. The only noise is from the bike, and when Swoops shuts it off, what’s left is crickets and the far-off drone of trucks on the highway.

Something very, very important occurs to him right then.

Kent comes back several minutes later. “There was a spider on my toilet paper and dust in the sink. I don’t think anyone’s been here in months.” He reaches for his helmet. “So, ready to go?”

Swoops puts out a hand to stop him. “We’re in Idaho,” he says.

“...Yes?”

“We’re at an empty rest stop in Idaho,” Swoops says. “It’s not Utah, but. Close enough.”

Kent just stares in baffled incomprehension. It’s fine; Swoops never expected Kent to remember something he said half a year ago. He’s got other ways to get his meaning across. He strokes the back of Kent’s hand and whispers, “I owe you one, right?”

He expects Kent to glance around the parking lot but Kent keeps meeting his gaze.

“It’s not a Yamaha,” Kent says. “You said I looked like I’d been bent over a Yamaha. This isn’t a Yamaha.”

Holy shit, Kent  _does_  remember. “Actually, it kind of is?”

Kent stares more, then breaks out laughing. “Oh my god, you planned this. You motherfucking sneak, you took me on a roadtrip just so you could fuck me over a motorcycle.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Swoops protests. He doesn’t get to say more, though, because Kent grabs his face and kisses him.

“Please tell me you washed your hands. With soap.”

“Yes, Mother,” and then Kent goes back to kissing him. Swoops expects things to go from there, but Kent stops again. “Does that make you my motorcycle-riding boyfriend?”

Swoops freezes. They've never actually defined the relationship. All signs point to the answer to Kent’s question being ‘yes,’ but the fact that Kent is asking at all makes Swoops think that maybe he was very, very wrong. His mouth opens but nothing comes out.

“That wasn’t supposed to be a trick question, you know.”

Swoops swallows. “I mean. If you want?”

“Do  _you_  want?”

Why the fuck are they doing this in the near-dark at an empty rest stop in Idaho? “I thought I already was,” Swoops says, because he’s got no better answer than the truth. “Your boyfriend, I mean.”

“Good. ‘Cause I thought you were, too.”

Swoops feels like every nerve in his body has suddenly lit on fire. He feels like a meteorite streaking to Earth. And he’s so, so happy to be falling. He pulls Kent in by the belt loops and kisses him softly, wanting Kent to feel all the way down to his toes how precious he is to Swoops. The deep red of Kent’s face when they part makes Swoops think that he’s gotten his message across. “Parser,” Swoops murmurs. “I’m going to bend you over this Yamaha and fuck you ‘til you scream.”

“God, yes,” Kent replies, already breathless.

Swoops scoots back to the edge of the seat and pats the space in front of him. “Get on.”

Kent’s eyebrows go up.

“Never said which way I was gonna bend you over it, did I?” Swoops drawls, and grins when Kent rolls his eyes and slides a leg over. It’s different, having Kent pressed up warm and solid along Swoops’ front instead of behind him like he’s been all day. He slides his hands under Kent’s shirt and starts kissing his way up Kent’s neck. Kent drops his head to the side, baring himself. When Swoops drops a hand to palm Kent through his jeans, Kent moans.

They get Kent’s shirt off and Swoops gets his hands all over him. He kisses, sucks, bites his way up Kent’s shoulders, leaving little half-formed hickeys and blushing skin. He keeps rolling Kent’s dick in his boxers, pressing himself against Kent from behind, and relishes the shivers this brings. Swoops pushes Kent’s jeans and underwear down his hips, but it’s not far enough.

“Climb off a sec,” he says. “Take off your boxers and pants.”

“Literally anyone could drive by,” Kent hisses, but he does as he’s told, stripping bare-ass naked in the middle of an empty parking lot with only Swoops and the Milky Way as his witnesses. Swoops digs out the lube and a condom.

“’S freezing,” Kent complains as he gets back on the bike. Swoops wraps his arms around him and kisses his cheek. He touches Kent everywhere, feeling the firm grip of Kent’s thighs around the motorcycle saddle and the shuddering flex of his belly when Swoops brushes Kent’s dick with his fingertips. 

“Jesus, you’re gorgeous,” Swoops breathes, and buries his face in Kent’s neck. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

Kent covers the hand Swoops has on his dick and wiggles his ass into Swoops’ crotch, drawing a needy groan. “Damn right I am.”

Swoops kisses his neck and pumps him slowly. He runs his other hand up Kent’s spine, gently pushing him forward to lean over the handlebars.

“This okay?”

“Yeah.” Kent shifts, goosebumps breaking out all across his flushed skin. “Hurry up. The colder I get, the less fun this is gonna be.”

Swoops shuffles until there’s enough space between them for him to unbuckle his belt, pop open the button, and push down the zip. It’s a struggle to get his underwear out of the way and roll a condom on, but he manages, and then pulls off one of his gloves so he can slick his fingers with lube. He rubs it around to warm it. Still, Kent gives a little jerk at the first touch of Swoops’ finger.

“Sorry.”

“Nah, s’okay.” Kent sounds breathless.

Swoops adds a second finger and works Kent open. All the while, he marvels at the sight before him, at Kent naked and stretched out across the front of the bike like an elaborate hood ornament. Willingly vulnerable, to whatever Swoops does, his body a temple for Swoops to worship.

“You look so good,” he says, because why the fuck not. Kent likes dirty talk and Swoops has plenty to say. “You always look good, but right now you look  _filthy_. Anyone could come by right now and see you, spread open and taking my fingers.”

Kent shudders and moans, body tightening.

“Of course, you always look like you’ve been taking my fingers,” Swoops says. “Always got that well-fucked look, whether I’ve had you or not. It drives me crazy. On the ice, off the ice, out at dinner, at a post-game, it never matters.” He adds a third finger and curls them down into the prostate so Kent cries out. “I wanna be the only one who makes you look that way. Not the showers, not skating, not the Stanley Cup. You always look like someone’s had you. It shouldn’t be  _someone_ , it should be me.”

Out of nowhere, Kent’s hand shoots back and grabs Swoops’ wrist. Swoops goes still, wondering—did he hurt Kent, did he say something—?

“Swoops. Troy.” Kent has pushed himself up so he can look back. His face is red and his pupils are blown, but his mouth is pulled to one side and he’s got both eyebrows pulled together in an expression of pure exasperation. “While it’s great you’ve got all this pent-up jealousy over other people hypothetically fucking me, there’s only one guy I want to be fucking me, and if that guy doesn’t stop his unnecessary pity-party and fuck me over his Yamaha like he promised, I’m going to kick that guy backwards off this fucking bike.”

Swoops probably isn’t supposed to snort-laugh, but he does. He also prods Kent’s prostate one last time before pulling out his fingers and lining up his dick. “Okay.”

Kent lets him go and leans back over the handlebars. “Gotta do everything myself,” he grumbles. The noise changes to a grunt of effort as Swoops pushes inside him. Kent’s legs go tight around the bike and Swoops steadies his hips in his hands. He goes slow, giving Kent time to relax and adjust. Kent is so  _hot_  inside, feeling even more so in contrast to the cold night air. Swoops has both feet braced on the ground, while Kent’s toes barely brush the pavement. Soon Swoops is seated inside him, and he has to take a moment to gulp for air.

“Kent, tell me—tell me when I can move.”

Kent clenches around him and draws both feet up to brace them against the foot rests. “Now. Any time, just go.”

Swoops pulls out and thrusts in carefully.

“Fuck you,  _harder_ ,” Kent whines. He pushes his ass back, greedy, and Swoops feels it as heat being shoved into his gut. He pulls out and thrusts in again, moaning.

“Yeah,” Kent pants. “Yeah, like that. Wanna hear you.”

Swoops fucks into him, holding him in place by the hips and using the leverage of his feet on the ground to give it the power Kent wants. Kent grabs the handlebars and moans obscenely. His voice echoes across the parking lot and it sends a jolt through Swoops as he imagines someone hearing them, what they  _sound_  like. There’s nothing but crickets and the occasional rustle of the wind to mask the wet sounds of one body pounding into another, much less their harsh breathing and grunts of effort. Swoops wishes he had a picture of them, of Kent laid out over the bike getting fucked.

He settles for memorizing the glow of Kent’s skin; the grip of his body; the sweat dripping down Kent’s temple, for all that the night air is starting to draw shivers from him. He leans down to change the angle, deepen it, and reaches around to fist Kent’s dick. Kent moans brokenly, goes tight, and comes. Swoops licks the sweat on Kent’s spine and thinks that nothing will taste, sound, or feel better than this.

With Kent finished, he focuses on getting himself off. It doesn’t take long. He might leave bruises on Kent’s hip from how hard he squeezes as he comes.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his fingers into the spot he’d been gripping too hard.

“Nah, I think that’s my line,” Kent says. He sits up, or tries to, reaching back for Swoops to steady him. “I got jizz all over the bike.”

Swoops pulls out and gets the condom off, then does up his pants. Kent, meanwhile, gets his clothes back on as fast as humanly possible. He’s definitely shivering, now, and digs through their bags for a sweatshirt. Swoops goes to dump the condom in the trash and get some toilet paper to clean up the bike with. After the mess is disposed of, he does what he’s wanted to do since the best orgasm of his life, and hugs Kent.

Kent seems surprised but not unreceptive. He hugs back, arms curling around Swoops and gripping tight.

“Thanks,” Swoops says.

“Back at you.”

“I can’t believe you remembered what I said, back then.”

Kent huffs. “Are you kidding? That was the hottest shit I’d ever heard in my life. Every time you kissed me under the mistletoe last Christmas, I thought I was gonna catch fire.”

 _‘You look like you went to kiss someone under the mistletoe and got fucked against a wall instead.’_ Swoops recalls. He’d never actually done that. “Guess I dropped the ball, there. Sorry about that.”

“Eh,” Kent says. “Make it up to me next Christmas.”

 _Next Christmas_. Swoops feels the same giddy thrill he got at the Motel 6, when Kent had said ‘next year.’ “Consider it done.”

“Awesome. Now, as much as I’m enjoying hugging you in the freezing cold in a dark parking lot in the middle of  nowhere, I’d really rather be horizontal in a bed.” He pulls back and grabs his helmet. “We’ve got, what, thirty more minutes?”

“About.” Swoops gets his helmet on and starts the engine. Kent gets on behind him. It’s back to normal, but Swoops still thinks about what they’d been doing just minutes before. He knows it’s impossible for him to actually smell the scent of sex clinging to the bike, but he imagines it, and it makes him smile. “Hang on.”

Twenty-eight minutes later, they’re pulling up in front of a little motel down a side street in Thayne, Wyoming. The woman at the front desk looks tired, it being so late, but she welcomes them warmly and hands over their key without any fuss. Their room is even smaller than the one at the Motel 6. But it’s clean, and the heater works, and the mattress is worn but not lumpy. They’re both in bed and asleep within minutes.

When Swoops wakes, Kent is gone. There’s a napkin on his pillow with the message,  _Went to get breakfast._

There’s nothing about where Kent went or how long he planned to be gone, so Swoops figures he may as well shower. The bathroom has the same worn-but-clean look as the bed and the carpet, like a house that’s had a family living in it for some time. There’s complimentary shampoo and body wash, though, and the water is hot and tastes fine, and when he gets out, there’s clean towels to use that smell of fabric softener.

On the other side of the bathroom door, he hears someone come in.

“Swoops?”

Swoops comes out with the towel around his waist. The cooler air of the main room is a shock, so he pulls on a t-shirt and comes to investigate the shopping bag Kent’s put on the corner table by the door.

“There’s a grocery store ten minutes down the road,” Kent says.

Swoops nods and starts to ask, “Did you get any milk—?” but is cut off when Kent cups his cheek and kisses him. And then keeps kissing him.

 _Good morning_ , Swoops thinks. He pulls Kent close. Kent is in a clean long-sleeved shirt and the same jeans he’s been wearing for two days, and he clearly hasn’t had a shower yet. He smells like sunshine, like the open road, like last night. He tastes like coffee and home.

 _I love you_ , Swoops thinks. They part at last and Kent is smiling like today is already the best day of his life. Swoops tries to ask about the milk again and can’t. So he just says, “Good morning.”

“Morning.” Kent kisses him again, lightly, and then laughs. “I’m gonna go shower. I got you coffee, some kinda bacon-and-egg sandwich thing, and a bunch of protein bars. There’s also yogurt, take your pick.”

 _I love you so much_ , Swoops thinks, and says, “Okay. Thanks.”

Kent goes to shower. Swoops eats the bacon-and-egg sandwich thing, a blueberry yogurt, and a protein bar. Then he decides it might be a good idea to put underwear and pants on, so he does that. Only then does he get out the can of chilled coffee and pop the can open.

Kent joins him shortly after. He’s got the towel over his shoulders and is otherwise naked. Swoops usually notices how sexy Kent is naked, but now he just sees the stark tan lines on Kent’s arms and wrists, and how pale he is everywhere else. He notices the pucker of skin under one rib, where a bad check and a worse fall to the ice had sent him to the emergency room two years before Swoops’ time. He sees the pale hair on Kent’s legs, the sprinkling of it up Kent’s abdomen and chest, the way Kent’s body has already begun to soften and fill out again now that hockey season isn’t devouring every last shred of fat on him. The hot shower has made his skin pink. His cock is soft and flopping against his balls as he moves. He’s still Kent Parson, hockey god, but he’s also just a guy in a cheap motel digging through his bag for a clean-ish pair of briefs.

Kent catches him staring and chirps, “See something you like?”

Swoops gulps a mouthful of coffee. “See a lot of things I like.”

Something in Swoops’ voice makes Kent go a little pinker. “Yeah, well, hold your horses, cowboy,” he says, and pulls on the wrinkled briefs he unearthed. “If I let you drag me into bed now, we’ll never make it to Yellowstone before noon.”

Right now, Swoops doesn’t see how Yellowstone could be any better than a whole day in bed with Kent, but he can tell that Kent’s eager to see it. So he nods, drains his coffee, and joins Kent in packing up to leave.

Wyoming is greener than Nevada. Even before they hit the park’s edge, tree-covered mountains creep up along the skyline in every direction. The grasses and plants become more lush and bright. Slowly but surely they’ve crept into Northern territory, where Canada looms just beyond Montana and the winters come with real snow. It means more coniferous trees, deeper blue-greens, and wetter soil. There’s a taste of lushness in the air, a cool breath of nature that Swoops can feel on his skin. They cross rivers and pass farmland, open pastures filled with horses and cows and sheep, and follow a glittering blue river for a full half mile.

Then, at last, a sign: Welcome to Yellowstone National Park.

“Fuck yeah!” Kent crows. Then, when the glassy expanse of an enormous lake suddenly appears at their left, he taps Swoops’ arm and says, “Pull over!”

Swoops finds a flat area where other people have pulled over and brings the motorcycle off the road. Kent leaps off and dashes to the lake.

“It’s not going anywhere!” Swoops hollers, but he understands. The scenery is spectacular. Lake and sky are the same slate blue, with green-tipped mountains rising jaggedly on one side and then nothing but the horizon on the other. The water ripples gently from stray breezes but is otherwise calm.

Kent has his phone in his hand but he’s not taking a picture. He’s just looking, seeming to glow in the reflected light. Swoops stops just short of coming up beside him, and surreptitiously takes a quick and silent photo of Kent standing at the water’s edge.

Swoops joins Kent at the shore, his boots crunching gently on sticks and pebbles. “Google says it’s Jackson Lake.”

Kent nods absently. “It’s beautiful.”

They spend several quiet minutes just looking. Then Kent seems to remember that he’s a photo fiend and starts snapping pics. Swoops finds a couple flat rocks and tries to skip them.

Back on the bike, they keep riding north, eventually locating a tourist station with maps and park guides. It’s already half-past noon, so their first order of business is to eat a protein bar each and then seek out a restaurant. Most of the places in the park are more upscale than they’ve been eating at during the trip, but food is food. Afterwards, they check out the motel/campsite situation and discover that it’s both cheaper and more convenient to rent out a campsite.

Once that’s done, Swoops checks his watch and says, “We’ve got a good amount of daylight left. Any requests?”

Kent checks their map and lights up. “Old Faithful is about an hour from here, and there’s some sightseeing spots along the way. We should have enough time to get out there, look around, and come back before it gets too dark.”

As it turns out, the number one thing to see in Yellowstone Park is oceans of pine trees. But Kent is right; there are many opportunities to stop and witness some kind of incredible view. They see more lakes and rivers, sheer drop mountain edges, and several waterfalls. Kent takes so many photos that he has to start deleting older ones to make room on his phone.

Kent does most of the guiding on their trip. He decides when to stop, what to look at, how far to walk to investigate a particular landmark. Swoops follows along and is happy to do it. He’s always liked Kent’s energy and enthusiasm. Kent’s heart is open; he’s constantly ready to be awed by something, even if it takes him by surprise. Yellowstone’s wild beauty seems to captivate him, and renders him quieter than usual.

No matter how far Kent goes, though, he’s always looking back over his shoulder to make sure Swoops is no less than two steps behind.

Swoops has begun to realize that he wants to always be no less than two steps behind Kent. He’d like to spend the rest of his life trying to keep up with Kent Parson, if he can.

They’re less than ten minutes from Old Faithful when Kent makes them turn around and go back. A nondescript sign reading “Kepler Cascades” sits next to a small, dusty parking area. Beyond it is a long wooden walkway that extends across a drop-off full of rocks and trees. It looks like the beginnings of a trail.

“If it’s not nearby, we’ll just turn around,” Kent says, to which Swoops agrees. The walkway is broad and sturdy, and if Swoops doesn’t look over the edge at the massive drop-off over which it’s built, he can almost forget that he’s suspended in the air.

Kent walks next to the railing, blatantly examining the fall. “Swoops, come check out this drop!”

“No, thanks.”

“I’m serious, man, it’s amazing!”

“I’m cool, Parse.”

Kent stops walking and looks over. “Do you have a thing about heights?”

Swoops shrugs. “Just when I gotta look at them.”

“Oh.”

Swoops expects a chirp, or Kent cajoling him to come over. Instead, Kent leaves the edge and takes Swoops’ hand, tangling their fingers together. When Swoops blinks at him, Kent laughs and says, “Better with you than without you.”

“I don’t care if you wanna look over the edge.”

“Yeah, I know.” And that’s that. Kent walks with him down the middle, like there’s no place he’d rather be.

Swoops is starting to think that maybe that’s true. He swallows hard and pretends to be absorbed in the scenery.

The Kepler Cascades appear suddenly around a corner. The walkway arches across a massive crevice, a river running directly beneath it, with the falls thundering down a rocky outcropping on one side. Both the falls and the river are far below, and the walkway is thinner here than it was on the way here.

“We don’t have to,” Kent says.

Swoops won’t lie, his heartbeat is going faster, but he’s just unnerved, not nervous. “No, I’m good. I don’t like it, but not to the point where I’ll have a panic attack or anything. Not even close. Come on, we came all this way.”

“If you’re sure.”

Swoops rolls his eyes and tugs Kent onto the bridge.

The cascades are spectacular. The rush of white water sends spray in all directions, and when the wind blows hard enough, Swoops can feel it. Skinny pine trees riddle the shore on either side, and the river itself seems to extend into infinity in both directions.

Kent stands with him, hand still wrapped in his, just looking, until Swoops nudges his shoulder and leans in. “Take a picture, you know you want to.” He untangles their hands so Kent can use both of his to snap some shots. The height is intimidating but not that bad. Swoops watches the water roiling along while Kent works out angles and lighting for maximum Instagram perfection.

Swoops doesn’t even notice Kent has started taking pictures of him until he happens to look over at the right time.

“Hey, stop. At least get my good side.”

Kent snorts and doesn’t stop. “All sides are your good sides.”

“Your opinion doesn’t count, it’s biased.”

“Just shut up and look contemplative again, would you?”

“I love you,” Swoops says, and.

Oh. Oh, he... he said that.

Kent has gone wide-eyed and still.

Well, if he’s all in. Swoops nods. “Yeah. I love you. It’s just another part of my day, at this point. Wake up, I love you. Go to practice, I love you. Eat dinner, I love you. It’s fine if you don’t feel it back. I’m not asking for anything. Just, so you know. It’s there.” Kent isn’t speaking, so Swoops licks his lips and turns back to the falls. A hundred-foot drop is suddenly less scary than meeting Kent’s gaze. “Anyway. Contemplative, right?”

Dead silence from Kent. Then he croaks, “Are you serious?”

Swoops nods.

Kent leans backwards on the high railing and buries his face in his hands. “Are you  _kidding_  me right now? Seriously?”

“Um. No, I’m not kidding you, and yes, seriously.” Is this a good reaction or a bad one?

Kent groans. “I can’t—I can’t believe you. Okay, look, you—Promise me one thing.”

Swoops looks over. Nods.

“Promise me that next year, when we do this whole road trip thing again, that you don’t  _propose_  to me. Promise me.”

Swoops almost swallows his tongue at the words ‘propose to me.’ “Why?”

“Because I can’t move that fast. You get me? Saying… ‘I love you.’ I’m getting there. But I’m not  _there_ , not yet. So if we get to next year and we’re planning the trip to Tahoe and you’re asking yourself, ‘Should I bring a ring in case I need to ask Kent to marry me?’, the answer is  _no_. Assume I need, like, three to six more months before I’ll be ready to say ‘yes’ to that.”

Swoops has to grip the handrail because he feels like if he doesn’t, he’s going to just float away. “Okay.”

“And when I’m ready to, you know, say that thing back to you—”

“I love you.” Swoops’ face hurts from how hard he’s grinning.

“Yes,  _that_.” Kent’s cheeks are going pink. “I’m not gonna do what you did. I’m not gonna make it this big, romantic thing.” He gestures to the breathtaking landscape, in case Swoops didn’t understand that taking a guy on a road trip to Yellowstone National Park and confessing his love on a bridge overlooking a waterfall was the definition of a grand, romantic gesture. “I’m literally going to roll off you one night and say, ‘Hey, Troy, I love you.’ And you’re gonna say, ‘Okay.’ Okay?”

“Okay.” He steps into Kent’s space and takes his face in both hands. “I’m gonna kiss you now. Because I love you.”

Kent is so, so red. “God, fuck  _off_ ,” he complains, but then he loops both arms around Swoops’ waist and squeezes so hard Swoops can barely breathe. Not that he cares. He’s kissing Kent Parson, whom he loves, in front of a gorgeous waterfall in Yellowstone Park. He has everything he’ll ever need, right here on this godforsaken too-high bridge.

When at last Swoops lets him go, Kent says, “I’m gonna take some more pictures.”

“Okay.”

So Kent takes some pics and Swoops keeps staring at the scenery. They both pretend it’s nonchalant and that they aren’t just waiting for half-hard boners to go down.

Finally, Kent says, “I think I’m good to go. You?”

“Sure.”

“Great. Get over here. Selfie time.”

They crowd together at the railing’s edge, and Kent raises his phone to snap a pic. “Shit, I can’t get us both and the falls. Here, move over—no, now you’re out of it.”

“Excuse me.” They both look up to see an older man in a white polo and khaki pants. There’s a camera around his neck and a travel pack at his side. An older woman, likely his wife, is standing behind him with a soft smile on her face. The man gestures to Kent’s phone and asks, “Would you like me to take it for you?”

“That would be awesome, thank you.”

“It’s no trouble. Now, move a little this way—no, not you. Stand closer together. There.” He raises the phone and snaps a few shots. “Young man, why don’t you put your arm around your boyfriend? You like him, don’t you?”

Swoops shrugs and loops an arm around Kent’s shoulders. “He’s okay. He snores.”

“We both know you’re the one who snores.”

The older man shakes his head while his wife laughs. After a few more pictures, the man gives Kent’s phone back. Swoops is shocked at the quality of the photos, even with just an iPhone camera.

“These are amazing,” Swoops says. “Are you a professional photographer?”

“Afraid not.” The man taps the camera around his neck. “Just a weekend hobbyist. Eleanor likes bird watching. We come out here sometimes to enjoy the sights together.”

“Well, thanks. These are better than anything we could have taken.”

“No thanks necessary,” the man says. “But do me a favor, would you? Don’t let the Sharks knock you out of the playoffs, next year. Ellie’s and my fantasy hockey team took quite a hit.”

Swoops gapes.

Kent recovers first. “We’ll do our best.”

The man smiles and gives Kent’s shoulder a grandfatherly pat. “Good man. Enjoy the Park, both of you.”

“We will.”

The man and his wife continue on down the bridge. Swoops stares after them. He feels like his heart has broken the sound barrier from beating so hard.

Kent’s burst of laughter almost gives Swoops a heart attack. “Jesus, the look on your face. Should I get the smelling salts, in case you faint?” he teases.

Swoops elbows him. “It’s not funny. I just saw my career flash before my eyes.”

“Hey, watch it,” Kent says, and elbows him back. “I’m a delicate flower. I bruise easily.”

“Keep that up, and you’re going to.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Kent says, grinning ear to ear. “I’m your captain. Show some respect.”

“I hate you,” Swoops says, matter-of-fact.

“Naaah.” Kent beams. “You love me.”

 _So fucking much_ , Swoops thinks. “Yeah. I do.”

Kent kisses him. He smells like the open road and tastes like a promise. “Let’s get back. We still have to see Old Faithful and get back to the campsite. And I wanna drive around tomorrow and see the park before we head for Portland.”

“Portland,” Swoops repeats. “Portland, Oregon?”

Kent shrugs. “Might as well.”

Swoops chuckles and kisses him again. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Might as well.”

**Author's Note:**

> Three days and so much coffee and research later, this thing is finished. I'd like to thank my muse for deserting me during Patater week and then showing back up on Friday with this plot bunny, screaming, "GET IN, LOSER, WE'RE GOING ON A ROAD TRIP!"
> 
> I have never actually driven through the American West before, but after three days of literally clicking through several highways in Nevada, Utah, Idaho, and Wyoming, plus a lot of Google searching for restaurants and motels in the areas, I feel a lot like I have. (Shoutout to my friend in Nevada for telling me about Vegas's horrendous June temperatures and making me switch this to May.)
> 
> The Legend of Kent Parson's Sex Hair was not supposed to go any further, but it did. I never thought I'd be one of those people who wrote a 10k one-shot, but now I have, and I'm super happy I did. It was hard work but I enjoyed every minute of discovery with these characters, and I hope you guys enjoy this little trip through Hockey Boy Feels and the American West.
> 
> As always, I'm on [tumblr](http://punmasterkentparson.tumblr.com/).


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